A ring.
A ring?
The crate was full of packing materials, everything from folds of silk to balled-up yellowed newspaper. But laying atop this mess, in the strangely pristine velvet cushion of an open ring box -- was a ring. Just a ring, laying next to the note you had first noticed.
You pluck the ring from its box. A... shiver runs through you, and you start a bit, wondering if there's a draft. Then you shake it off to focus on the ring. It's pretty heavy, which surprises you for its size. You look it over curiously, but it appears to just be a plain band, unadorned, almost unremarkable except for its weight and its yellow lustre.
Could it be? Actual, solid gold?
You shake your head. That would be too good. Switching it to your off hand, you pick up the note.
"To whoever has the misfortune to open this crate:
Close it again immediately and seal it. Bury it somewhere safe. Hidden.
Nephew, if you're reaidng this, know that I love you but I'm terribly disappointed in you and worried for you.
DO NOT TOUCH THE RING."
The last sentence was large, all caps, and underlined several times.
"Well, too late for that," you mutter, looking at the golden circle in the palm of your hand. You roll it around a bit, then hold it between your fingers to examine it again. You feel tingling in your hands, and an odd feeling of anticipation, but you write that off as the note getting in your head. There is nothing special about this thing.
You put the ring back in its box and set it aside. Then you begin digging through the packing materials. But there is literally nothing else in this decently sized crate. You shake your head.
"Uncle Thomas must have gone crazy or something," you mutter.
You look at the ring, now sitting in its box atop an old coffee table that had been mouldering in the attic since before you moved in. Almost automatically you pick the box up and start to take the ring out, but then you hesitate.
So much drama about this stupid thing, you think, fingers hovering over the band. It's just a ring.
But then, why do you feel such a compulsion to put it on? It's not like you want a ring; you're a guy, you don't wear jewellery. If this was real gold, you'd probably want to sell it.
And yet...
Your fingers brush the ring, and suddenly, with a lurch in your stomach, an old memory surfaces, one you'd tried hard to forget. An image, a pin-up of a furry guy, fox or wolf or something, lounging with an erect, glistening, thickly knotted cock.
You shake your head violently, desperate to get the shameful image out of our head. You hated that trash, stupid furries, you didn't enjoy seeing furry porn, it was just everywhere.
You take a deep breath, forcing the image away, forcing down the shame and the arousal. You focus back on the ring, which you seem to have taken out of the box. You feel uneasy, but there is also a very definite urge to put it on.